Friendship and a Car
by CapNicholls
Summary: I couldn't think of a title. As usual. But it's a stupid story about friendship and cheesiness (and a car, obviously), so that's fun. Steve is sad and Soda...actually, Soda just kind of sits there like a bump on a log and doesn't do much. Oh well. Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, in case you were wondering if I'm S. E. Hinton, undercover. I'm not.


_In my defense, I wrote this story moons and moons ago and never got around to typing it up because I'm lazy. I can write better than this, I swear. All that said, it's kind of stupid, but that's okay. You can read it and then feel better about your own skills as a writer._

* * *

Steve's already there when I get to the DX Saturday morning, head invisible under the hood of his car.

"Hey, Steve," I say, pulling off my jacket and tossing it to the side. The gas station doesn't open until nine, but our boss said we could come in early to work on Steve's car, which is about ready to break down.

Steve grunts a reply, not bothering to lift his head, and I grin. Typical. I roll the creeper under the car, lying on my back with the flashlight between my teeth so I have both hands to work with. Once I get the old brake belt off, I roll out, wiping the grime on my hands off on my pants and getting up to get a new belt. I reach behind Steve to grab a tool I need, one hand on his back so he knows I'm behind him, and he flinches, jerking away. I glance at him, but he keeps his head ducked under the hood, and I know what's up. I don't press it, though - until I'm done switching the belt.

He's finally done changing the oil, but he stays turned away from me as he attempts to clean his hands on one of the greasy rags lying around

"Let me see." He knows what I mean, but stubbornly ignores me. I knew he would. He wouldn't be Steve if he didn't.

"Stop it," he growls when I try to walk around him to get a look at his face.

"Steve." Honestly, sometimes dealing with my best friend is like dealing with a five-year old. You just have to be stern until he gives in.

And he does, whipping towards me suddenly, angrily, glaring at me under a black eye, split lip, and an ugly, dark purple bruise along his cheekbone. "Is that what you wanted to see?" he snaps.

What I wanted to see. As if I enjoy seeing him bruised and beat up. Whenever anyone asks what happened, even the gang, he says he got into a fight. Everyone believes him, 'cause he really does get into fights a lot. But I know better than to believe that story. Steve's a good fighter - rarely ever come out of a fight worse for wear. I think I'm one of the few people, besides maybe Two-Bit and Darry, that know how bad Steve's dad actually treats him. It's not as bad as Johnny's dad, but it's still abuse. And, unlike Johnny, Steve fights back. But his dad's huge; the only person I know that would even stand a chance against him is Darry. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." It's the same thing he says every time, but every time, it comes out a little less convincing. Like he just cracks a little more each time. He's good at pretending it doesn't bother him, but I know it does. If I know someone really well, I somehow always know what they're feeling. And right now, Steve's hurting. Badly.

"Hey," I say, and he glares at me. That's another thing about Steve - if he's feeling scared, or hurt, or sad, he covers it up with anger. He's not really as hateful as everyone thinks. He covers his emotions with hate to keep his rep up. "You want to talk?"

"No," he snaps automatically, like he does any time I ask. But this time, he's close to the breaking point. I can feel it.

I stay quiet as he plops down on the hood of his car, looking at the clock every few seconds, waiting impatiently for our boss to come, even though it's only eight-thirty. If he wants to talk, he'll talk; you can't force him. His leg bounces as he looks pointedly away from me, willing time to go faster so he can forget about this and focus on the cars that come in.

It slows after a few minutes, though, and finally stops. He's suddenly quiet. He hadn't been talking, but his demeanor was loud. Now it's silent. Suffocatingly silent.

He stares at the hole in the knee of his jeans, still. I don't move either, not speaking, just watching him, letting him decide if he needs to get a load off his chest or not.

"I can't keep doing this, Soda," he finally says, still staring at his knee, voice blank, anger gone. I go over and slide onto the hood next to him, letting him talk.

"I can't- I don't mind the actual pain. I don't care. But it- I know _he_ doesn't care, and that's what- that hurts. I don't mean like- not physically. Just like-" He knows what he means, but can't put it into words - he doesn't know how. He sounds frustrated, as if he thinks I don't understand what he means.

"I know," I say easily, letting him know I get it. My heart aches for him - I'd take physical pain over emotional pain any day of the week too.

"Just- why?" he bursts out, sounding confused, pained. Sounding like a little kid. "I've done everything for him. I went out for sports when I was a kid. I keep my grades up. I do all this stuff, but… I just want to hear him say, just once, 'Good job,' or 'I'm proud of you,' or 'I lo-' " He breaks off, swallowing, still staring at his knee, eyes glistening. "But he never does. He doesn't _care_. I can't make him care. Why doesn't he-? Why-" His voice cuts off again, getting thick as he tries to get a grip. But he's been holding it in for years - he needs to get it out.

I squeeze shoulder, and just at that touch, his eyes shut tightly, brow furrowing, biting his lip, hard, nostril flaring, trying so hard to hold on-

"It's okay, Steve," I say quietly, and he lets go. Tears streaming down his face, hunched slightly forward, shoulders shaking.

My mind suddenly goes blank; I don't know what to say. I've never seen him cry. Ever. There's nothing _to_ say. So I just wrap my arm around his shoulders, holding him like I held Ponyboy after our parents died, like I held Johnny after we found him in the vacant lot.

And you know what? He doesn't stop me. Doesn't pull away, doesn't even try to resist. Instead, he sinks into it, and part of me is glad he's accepting it, but part of me get more worried. Steve's not emotional, at least that I've ever seen, and he's never been a touchy person. The fact that he's allowing this - inviting it, even - letting himself break down…I can't imagine how bad he must be hurting. How much pain, physical and emotional, he's gone through to get to this point. I don't _want_ to imagine it. I just want him to be okay. Why can't I do anything to make this okay?

A noise escapes his throat as he chokes on his sobs, but it doesn't sound like he's crying - it sounds like he's dying. Like he hurts so bad, he just…

I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my jaw. "It's okay, buddy," I say, even though I know it's not. "It's okay."

We stay like that a long time before his sobs slow as he takes hitching gulps of air, then finally cease, only letting out a shuddering breath once in a while. I stay where I'm at, though, trying to give him a little comfort. He needs it.

I keep quiet as he calms down, breaths evening out. "Sorry," he finally says, voice slightly thick, but he doesn't pull away.

"Don't be sorry. It's okay."

We fall quiet again, and after a minute, I say, "I'm always here, alright? You ever need anything…I'm always here."

He lets out a long breath. "Thanks."

After a second, he starts to pull away, and I release him. "Alright?" Except his eyes being slightly pink, you'd never be able to tell he'd been crying.

"Yeah." He won't meet my eyes. "Sorry; I didn't mean to break down like that."

"Hey." I reach out to squeeze the back of his neck, giving him a slight shake, and he finally looks over at me. "Stop being sorry. You gotta get it out once in a while. It's okay."

He releases a long breath, as if letting it all go, and nods, pausing a second before sliding off the hood. "We better get ready to open up."

"You know I meant that, right?" I ask a minute later, flipping over the sign in the window to 'Open', and he looks over at me. "I'm always here. For anything."

He doesn't say anything for a second, just sort of searches my face before the corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Thanks."

* * *

_Apologies if there are any grammatical errors and/or typos...the formatting got all messed up and I had to fix it, and at this point I'm just posting it whether it's messed up or not. I'm no perfectionist, can you tell?_


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